“It proves,” he roared, with a sudden blast of fury, “that you are the damnedest imposter in London⁠—a vile, crawling journalist, who has no more science than he has decency in his composition!”

He had sprung to his feet with a mad rage in his eyes. Even at that moment of tension I found time for amazement at the discovery that he was quite a short man, his head not higher than my shoulder⁠—a stunted Hercules whose tremendous vitality had all run to depth, breadth, and brain.